I only have two more days at the shelter and I’m beginning to get sad about it. Fourteen and a half hours left to go. Tuesday will be my last day. The remaining forty hours were ordered to be done with Caltrans.
A man in a jersey walked onto the property today and started saying “six dollars for 10.” It took me a minute to realize that he had EBT cards in his hands. Every store on skid row takes EBT. Even the liquor stores and fast food restaurants. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize an addict can sell his or her EBT cards for less than their value and use the cash to buy dope. They get free food in the shelters anyway, why not?
I’m not criticizing anything about the way that works, just making an observation. Anyone who loves an addict knows there’s no way to “solve” the madness of addiction until the addict chooses to get off the ride. Even the State of California is an enabler.
“I’m sorry sir. When you show up dirty you gots ta leave. That’s how it is at the VOA. You need to go back to the VA and get yourself enrolled in a substance abuse program. You can’t come back here until some time’s gone by and you are really ready to accept help.” Eric hung up the phone and pressed his fingers to his temple, fatigued.
“Ma’am, I done told you. We don’t sign papers if you don’t got a case worker here.” Mark was getting frustrated. It was then tenth time he told the same woman the exact same thing. I put my hand on his back, trying to add some strength as I saw his cheek twinge with hidden anger. “No. No, ma’am. Thas not what I said. I said you have to go to The Midnight Mission. Not just any mission.” Twinge. Twinge. Twinge.
A staff member stood at the gate and stared across the street at the mounted police who had stopped to talk with someone who was sitting beneath a blanket that was hung up between two shopping carts filled with belongings. I wasn’t sure why they chose to stop there, randomly. The entire street is lined with people just like the homeless man they were talking to. Tents and blankets and shopping carts as far as the eye could see.
“They can sniff dope,” the staff worker mumbled.
“The horses. They have em trained.”
A client walked by and proclaimed to nobody in particular, “I need to get right with God. This shit is off the hook.”
Later in the day, somebody asked Wendy what she was doing for Thanksgiving.
“Working. We don’t get holidays off.”
“You don’t?” I asked.
“No. The homeless don’t take breaks on us, y’know. The staff in the office, they get holidays off. But us here on the outside, we don’t. We get anotha day off later with pay.”
The clients’ madness is constant. It never stops. I don’t know about horses being able to smell dope, but I do know that these staff members have atypical skills. Anyone who works in a service profession knows how hard it is to care when you are never thanked. Not only are these caregivers never thanked by the homeless addicts and mentally ill people they serve, they are also never noticed. Their work is never acknowledged and goes completely unrecorded in history. There are very few people who would serve knowing they would never be rewarded in this lifetime. Thanksgiving is coming up. I’m going to thank them.